Howie Got Fingered

by Howie

This speech-to-text software makes my life easier. The cock-sucker Sammy is out on assignment, ruining his life for journalistic integrity and crackwhores, so it's up to me to write something on this Gold-forsaken website. Paragraph. No, make a new paragraph. Son of a bitch. Secretary! GET IN HERE! THE FUCKING COMPUTER IS MAKING FUN OF ME AGAIN! CAN YOU HEAR ME! THE FUCKING PHONE ISN'T WORKING. Do I have a secretary?

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A real man goes to the hospital only under the direst of circumstances. The average man usually has to be incapacitated and carried via stretcher to get him within 50 feet of a doctor. Everybody has that uncle that chopped his finger half-off and super-glued it back on. My grandfather used to say if duct-tape or whiskey won't fix it, then it's too big of a problem to bother with. Of course, ‘not bothering’ with the sick and infirm meant ol’-fashioned euthanasia via a point-blank blast to the head from a blunderbuss. Nobody dared cough, fart, or even move at grandpa’s house. His vision was based on movement. But I digress. . .

Pride be damned, if a man has a problem with his penis he'll be dropping trou in front of a doctor faster than he would in front of a complimentary hooker.

Enter my cock... errr... that doesn't sound right. Allow me to introduce my penis. I haven't stopped peeing in three days. That's not entirely true. I haven't been peeing. It feels like I'm peeing. Right now. I feel like I'm pissing.

I haven't slept in three days either, because every time I start to fall asleep, I think I'm peeing and it wakes me up. It's like my urethra is wet. Which it should be, right? I don't know.

I called the doctor and made an appointment.

"And what's this concerning?" the receptionist asked.

"I think I'm urinating," I said.

"Do you need to get off the phone?"

"No, I'm not really peeing. I just think I am."

There was a long pause as the receptionist thought it over. "I'll just put down bladder problem."

"Ok, and could I see a female doctor?"

"Yeah," the receptionist said.

"Small hands, preferably."

"Ok."

Now, I'm no fool. I'm high and cranky, but I'm not really stupid. I knew what was going to happen if I went to the doctor with a pisser problem. I was in for a finger fucking.

I was ok with this. I had come to terms with it. Every man must. So, as I thought it was the only right thing to do, I took a nice long shower and cleaned up well for the doctor.

I drove a half-hour to the clinic and got checked in. I sat down and I still felt like I have to pee. There was also this other feeling. A familiar one. Like the time I ate nothing but licorice for a week and shit my pants in the Shopko parking lot.

So I got up and went to the bathroom. It was explosive. I threw mud like a landmine throws body parts - indiscriminately and with extreme malice. I wrecked that place. I cleaned up myself as well as possible, but the toilet was a total loss.

They called me to the doctor's office. A male nurse greeted me with a handshake. His fingers were long and thick as plums.

Not great.

The nurse weighed me (158), took my blood pressure (180/38) and heart rate (127 beats per minute - beat that, pussy!).

"Pretty impressive," I said.

"Sure," he said dismissively. "If you don't plan on surviving the rest of the day."

"I never do," I said.

The nurse told me to take a seat on the paper covered table to await the doctor. He and his ugly, fat fingers left.

The doctor took about fifteen minutes during which I almost had time to masturbate. Almost.

She entered. She was very pretty. I looked to her hands. Tiny hands - short fingers. Jackpot. This woman was the prize as far as getting my ass fingered.

She asked all the usual questions: Was I on drugs (yes), what drugs (long list), could she have some (sure). What was the problem?

"I feel like I'm peeing."

"Right now?" she asked sexily.

"Yeah," I said.

She looked at my crotch. "Are you, in fact, peeing?"

I looked down. "No, that's not pee. I had some free time. Pay it no mind."

She went through a list of possible infections. Nope. Nope. Nope. Not possible. No. My drug abuse may be rampant, but my sexual organs had been restricted to a controlled diet of masturbation and water.

"Could you take off your pants? I need to see the area."

I dropped my trousers to my ankles.

"Is there a reason you're not wearing underwear and your pubic area is shaved bald?"

"Waxed," I corrected her. "Friction scares me."

She palpated the region. "Nothing swollen."

"Well, excuse me," I said, feeling rude. My dick started getting hard.

"I meant there are no signs of infection," she said, making a rookie mistake by turning her back on my penis. She got away with it this time. "But since this is possibly a problem with your plumbing, we're going to have to do a prostate exam."

"I know," I said.

"Ok, now bend over that table. Put your elbows flat on the table. Ok."

"Listen, doc. I tried cleaning up for you, but things might be a little gross back there. I had a stomach problem earlier."

"That's ok," she pulled on a rubber glove. "It's not like I'm here for a social call."

I looked over my shoulder at her. She was frozen with a gob of lubricant on her finger.

She looked at me, "Not that that's what you do for a social call."

I smiled and tried to wink at her without using my eyes.

She got over her embarrassment and sat down behind me. Her hands were warm and gentle as she spread my ass a little.

"Waxed back here, too," she said.

"Friction," I reminded her.

"You're going to feel some pressure here." She pushed. Nothing happened. I felt pressure. She pushed again.

"You're going to have to relax a little," she said.

I took a deep breath. I relaxed my muscles. She pushed again. A finger slid into my ass.

Do these nuts make my ass look fat?

"Good. Your prostate feels fine." She felt around a little. "How's that feel?"

And, with not a hint of sarcasm, I said, "Not too bad, actually."

She froze again. I tried not to clench. She pulled out and it made the kind of sucking noise that you expect to hear when pulling a shoe out of really wet mud but that you hope your ass will never make. I don't know how much was lubricant and how much was wet shit, but I know things splashed.

I refused to look back.

"I think we'll just give you antibiotics and see if that clears it up." The doctor handed me a stack of napkins and then she was up and out the door. The slut.

Freshly fingerfucked, I wiped my ass and pulled up my pants. Great, I still needed to pee, but now I felt like cuddling, too.